


Under a Blooming Tree

by Phia



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drinking & Talking, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: There’s a few empty seats down the bar that this man could fill, but he’s here, and he’s looking straight at Haru.Haru looks right back. The man grins, lips parting to showcase a strip of shiny, white teeth.Or, Haru writes and Rin takes the flight part inbarflytoo seriously.For RinHaru Week and one of Day 1's AUs — Artist.





	Under a Blooming Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! I hope writers count as artists here.  
> Titles are hard. It's still April 22nd here but the week has commenced so I've just started.  
> I realize I might have gotten some things wrong about drinking/Japan. I apologize for that.  
> I hope you enjoy reading this!

“I’m sorry,” she had said, a frown pulling at her lips to prove it. “It’s just not what we’re looking for right now.”

Haru hears the unspoken words: _It’s just not what we’re looking for from_ you. They’d expected more from him: his agent, the publishing team, himself. And he still let everyone down.

He looked down at the manuscript. She _did_ push herself. The copy sports dog-eared pages, front cover curling up at the bottom right corner. She’d mused over it, but it couldn’t be anything better than what it was.

“No.” His eyelids lowered. He halved this scene so he didn’t have to take in the whole thing. ”I’m sorry.”

His insides cringed when it unfurled as a whisper. He’d taken the manuscript back and strode out of the office without looking behind him.

A week later, it still isn’t her fault. As he walks down Tokyo’s streets, he tries to find the source stewing in an alleyway. He peers past brick and shadows, searching for something in a dark mass. Some sort of answer to why the words remained flat on the page.

He could meditate, or stop pushing twenty pages daily, or move closer to the water. He could join a book club, or take up a new hobby, like knitting. He could find new friends, although Makoto’s weekly visits were enough for him. (The routine of picking up empty food containers and whining about health and asking about writing.)

Something hits at his shoulder, throwing his body back a step. He pivots on his heel and sights a couple, holding hands and frowning at him.

“Sorry,” he says, and they turn forward again, picking up their pace.

He shrugs — this street isn’t bright enough for him to see well. Another gray avenue before he returns to his warm apartment, the mackerel awaiting him in the refrigerator. The best possible distraction from the black screen of his monitor.

His mind revisits the couple: the fan of black hair on the woman’s trenchcoat, her companion’s glare at Haru. The clasp of their hands, and their fingers, netted together.

He stops on the middle of the gravel, a familiar sign catching this attention. He decides to take the route. The bar is down a flight of stairs, splaying in the musky darkness of the convenience store’s basement. There are people under shadow instead of spotlight. The blackness is almost like a bandage.

He’s not _famous_ , but his previous novels do have a picture of him on the About the Author page. He feels like that picture now: colorless, a slight frown and staring at the camera like it can’t get to him.

He steps up to the bar and sits in a stool. The woman behind the bar cleans the surface off with a rag: sharp, damp stripes. The music is low, leaning towards sultry, with saxophone and the sizzle of cymbals.

He orders a cup of sake and plucks it from the bar when it comes. He takes a swig without time to savor the flavor. He won’t drink too much, and good thing that his apartment isn’t far away.

“Chuhai.”

The bartender glances up, to Haru’s right. Haru feels the warmth there, the brush of fabric against his jacket sleeve. “Flavor?”

The voice, again. “Lemon.”

Haru hears the creak of the plastic stool as the man sits in it. He glances down the bar. There’s a few empty seats down the bar that this man could fill, but he’s here, and he’s looking straight at Haru.

Haru looks right back. The man grins, lips parting to showcase a strip of shiny, white teeth.

He has hair the color of cherries and eyes a shade lighter. Sharp, strong lines compose his face. He wears a large black coat with a hood, a maroon shirt a bit darker than those eyes.

The bartender sets the can in front of him. Without taking his eyes off of Haru, he picks it up and opens it. It fizzes in the space between them.

“You’re the fiction author. The one who wrote all those.” He waves his can at Haru. “Books.”

He drinks. Haru watches the line of his throat when he casts his head back. “Yeah.”

The man sets the can on the counter. He sends his own tongue down the path of his lower lip. Haru keeps watching.

“I only know ‘cause I’m from where you’re from. Iwatobi.”

Haru leans in a little closer to hear him. But the music hasn’t grown any louder. “Do you write?”

“Poetry, mostly.” The man sighs, sound puttering into nothing. He raises a hand, flexes his fingers in Haru’s direction. “I’m Rin.”

“Haru,” the author says, even though it’s unnecessary.

But Rin hasn’t started spouting off quotes or questions, so he doesn’t seem to be a big fan. Haru takes the hand, shakes it. Rin’s blood runs hot. He breaks their grip, flattens his own palm against the bar.

“Do you come here often?”

Haru raises an eyebrow.

Rin laughs, a lovely melody over the music. “I didn’t mean to be cheesy.”

“But you were,” Haru says.

Rin gives him a closed-lip smile. This one is nice, too. Haru can focus on the dark blade of his eyelashes, the way the skin around his eyes scrunches up.

He looks down at his hand, the way the dim light nudges at his knuckles. He thinks of the couple, the clutch of their hands so heavy. Like the pressure of a bird on a wire: a visitor to the thrumming heat beneath.

Rin is not here to network. Rin is looking back at him with that grin and one eyebrow cocked, like a smug love interest in a shitty shoujo manga.

Then Haru’s gaze catches on the lemon chuhai, the white can with blue lettering. He thinks of the large and swathing jacket, fabric swarming around Rin like a stray spirit. Rin’s long hair, styled around his face, showing off those eyes full of glitter.

He hasn’t drunk enough sake for this, but he finds himself reaching across the space between them. He finds himself layering fingers over Rin’s.

Rin returns the grip. He talks: “I’m working on my first anthology. I used to only do poetry slams but...”

His voice is a warm hum. Haru listens to this music.

He finishes his cup of warm sake. He has another. He bends into Rin, slow. Rin laughs and drinks more chuhai, and Haru can smell the fruit wafting off of him. The music beats behind them, so cheesy compared to whatever’s happening here.

They open their wallets and set bills on the bar. They walk up onto the street, the colder spring air. There is half a meter between them. Their stride is dazed and haphazard — the correct steps don't matter. They grow closer before parting across the pavement again.

They end up at Haru’s complex, then up in the apartment. They kick shoes off, slip out of coat and jacket, talk and laugh and hover in the doorway. They take time to look at each other, bounce gazes towards Haru’s futon in the main room. They hold each other’s hands and smile in every unsober way.

They kiss that way too, lips parting before pressing with more of a fervor. After one of these:

“Do you want to do this?” Rin says it like they’re about to jump off the same cliff. Haru tries to scoff, but it comes out as a sigh.

“I have everything.”

Rin laughs and kisses Haru again. His next words are almost spoken over Haru’s mouth. “Wow, that’s arrogant.”

That’s not what Haru meant, but Rin doesn’t seem to mind, smiling and showing off those brilliant teeth.

There’s the puddle of clothes on the floor, small talk and then their lips are smearing against each other’s. There’s hands feeling everywhere, but never hard, a bit shaky. Then Haru hefts his arms over his head and Rin fists the fabric of the sweater to yank it off.

There’s more, and there’s the morning.

And then there’s less: Rin’s body heat and said body are gone. His shoes and coat no longer dot the floor. He is a body blinked out of existence. A good night never to age into a good morning.

Haru pulls on pants and walks into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, then leaves to scan the living room and kitchenette. There’s isn’t a note for him to find, no phone number or address in sight.

He stands at the door again, his naked back against it. _What was Rin thinking here?_ Haru closes his eyes, lets his head thump on the wood. His nose picks up the scent of lemon, so faint he could be imagining it. Soon Rin will become a guy on some night, and then, nothing.

Haru rights his head. His eyes fly open.

“Oh,” he gasps, and then he tears across his apartment in a flurry of limbs. He collapses into his desk chair and jabs the button on the monitor with his thumb. As he waits for the computer to wake, he worries that the ideas will leave like Rin at early dawn.

But that doesn’t happen: his username, his password, and he’s on an empty document where he’s writing. It’s almost poetry, but not quite.

Rin is almost poetry, but not quite. Poetry is something to return to, and Rin is gone.

Unless that changes. But until then, he is welcome here.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [fiveyen](http://fiveyen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
